


i dream of things that never were

by kellifer_fic



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Amnesia, Challenge Response, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellifer_fic/pseuds/kellifer_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't affect him if they take this kid out of his holding cell or not but he kind of wants them to. He looks... interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i dream of things that never were

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mincamo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mincamo/gifts).



> Despite first appearances, this is not an AU.

“What am I doing here?” Adrian grumbles, snugging his tie tighter. He catches his profile in the glass and turns with an annoyed huff, looking like he's trying to tame his hair just by combing his fingers through it and failing dismally. All of a sudden his eyes seem to refocus and it’s like one of those old three dimensional pictures coming into view, a man barely done being a boy sitting cuffed to a table with a cup of coffee by his elbow. “What’s this?”

“You pay me for my eye,” Harris says, his tone neutral. He raises two fingers to the glass and slowly outlines the man beyond with them. “I deliver.”

Adrian hums thoughtfully. The man beyond the mirror is slight with dark hair that's currently a disheveled mess, probably from being dragged in. He's wearing the remains of a suit, jacket gone, tie loose and dress shirt unbuttoned to show the wings of his collarbones. He's got a smear of something dark on one cheek, possibly blood.

"He looks like a stiff wind would blow him over."

"He's scrappy," Harris says. "Was hell trying to get him down here."

"I hope you're not telling me your woes so you can up your finder’s fee," Adrian says curtly, but he's obviously entranced and Harris can tell. Adrian doesn't have a poker face to speak of which is why he usually has other people to make his deals. Adrian turns and snaps at a darkened corner, "Eames, front and center!"

Eames moves forward out of the shadows. He likes that Harris hadn't noticed him; that he startles a little at his presence. He likes having people wrong-footed around him. He approaches the window, looks at what's on offer.

Eames has an eye too though, an eye for money and he sees it in this young man. He might look like he’s been dragged through the streets by an angry mob but it can’t hide the breeding and _presence_ so obviously settled on his shoulders. Eames has seen indentured fighters before with the same bearing of course, the super-rich having fallen on hard times and sacrificing dead limbs, unmarried or unwanted progeny that come at a hefty price but this is… different.

"Doesn't look like much," he says, because he's supposed to.

“That's Arthur,” Harris says with an imperious sniff and Adrian blinks.

“I’m sorry, is this some sort of joke?” Adrian splutters. The name doesn't mean anything to Eames, but it obviously does to Adrian because he's paled, his nervous ticks going into overdrive.

"He pissed off Cobol and they've been after him ever since. They ran him down and handed him over. He's been dosed so he has no idea, of course."

"Why didn't they just kill him?"

"They want him taken off the table while they decide what to do with him and it gives them time to track down his partner."

As Eames watches, Arthur drops his head onto the table he's cuffed to and his eyes slip closed. Even in that gesture of exhaustion there's still defiance written into the lines of his body and Eames finds himself fascinated.

Harris makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. "You can pay me _before_ you get your junkyard dog to kick the tires," he says. "After what happened last time."

Eames watches the ensuing negotiation out of the corner of his eye, not really interested. It doesn't affect him if they take this kid out of his holding cell or not but he kind of wants them to. He looks... interesting.

"Might be fast," Eames says, interrupting Harris and Adrian before they start screaming at each other like they always do. "He's nice to look at which is always a bonus."

"He won't be pretty for much longer if he gets his face smashed in by you," Harris snaps, still sore about Eames taking out one of his best, giving him a beating so bad he was off the entire circuit.

"He won't fight me," Eames points out, flexing his sizable biceps to underline his point.

"It's interesting," Harris says, eyes narrowed. "That you always seem to make the weight class you want to."

"I'll take him," Adrian interjects, hurried. _Terrible_ poker face.

"Fine," Harris says and then grins, shark-like. "My fee's gone up thirty percent."

*

The accommodations, to put it politely, are lacking but Eames finds somewhere for the new kid, scratch that, _man_. Eames can't decide whether Arthur is twenty or forty, he's got one of those eternal faces. Arthur nods his thanks when he's shown his rack, doesn't do anything stupid like ask Eames if there's a way out of the place.

He seems to have accepted his lot.

"You won't die here," Eames says, offering the only comfort he can and not sure why he feels the compulsion. "It's dream-fight only. That way they can kill us over and over again without the messy cleanup or overhead. Old school no holds barred down below only."

Arthur gives him a funny look, something strained in his face. "I figured," he says, instead of asking what dream fighting is. He's either pretending he knows or actually knows, doesn't really matter which. Whatever dreaming this guy thinks he's done won't help in the pit.

Not in the slightest.

*

Eames is good.

Eames is fucking fantastic, actually. Mostly because Eames has a little skill in the dream world that's rare. He can not only change his appearance but his weight, muscle distribution, everything. The slightest difference can give him the edge in a fight and no one can prove a damn thing.

One thing he needs to work on is speed though. After seeing the guy, _Arthur_ he'd reminded Eames with yet another funny look on his face, sparring with some of the smaller fighters to keep fit up above, Eames decides Arthur is the perfect person to work on that with.

"You sure?" Adrian asks and they're both watching Arthur who has a beautiful lethality to him, never hesitates to make the kill down below and doesn’t waste time or energy in being showy but still manages to put on a show. "You'll squash him."

"Tullen got under my guard last week," Eames muses. "Almost broke my jaw, the little bastard."

"You scared of pain you can wake up from?" Adrian asks and there's something in his eyes that always makes Eames nervous, like he wishes he wasn't in the dream-fight business, that he was allowed this kind of brutality in the waking world.

"You remember," Eames says.

*

They spar awake because good form translates. Eames isn't sure how it works, some kind of muscle memory thing that carries over but what it boils down to is that if you can't fight awake, you're not going to turn into Bruce Lee when you're under.

Arthur looks surprised when Eames brings him into the cleared space set aside for training, when he shucks his shirt and rolls his neck. "You're kidding, right?" Arthur says, eying the expanse of Eames' shoulders in a calculating way.

"You're faster than me," Eames says. "Let's see how you use it."

Arthur is exhilarating to fight with, slick like a weasel, hard to get a hold of. Eames knows it'll all be over if he gets a hand on Arthur, an arm around him but he's having trouble managing it, Arthur moving like he's phase-shifting in and out of time and space.

What’s even stranger is that Arthur seems to anticipate his moves, for how he’s going to react.

"Oi, maybe half speed first," Eames complains, winded. He's fast realizing he's been relying too heavily on his matches being quick. His stamina's been suffering because of it.

Arthur makes a show of moving slow, like stop-motion photography and Eames laughs, can't help himself.

He doesn't remember the last time he did.

*

“...Eames...up...Eam...get...”

Someone is yelling his name, or at least he _thinks_ someone is yelling his name but it’s hard to hear it with the ringing in his ears and what feels like his brain detached from his skull.

Eames has _miscalculated_ and badly. He’s fighting Rodriquez, big and brawny but slow so after the weigh-in, Eames had slimmed down, thought his speed work would come in handy. He’s been inspired by Arthur, by the way he’d been hardly able to land a punch during sparring but Rodriquez has caught him with a haymaker and Eames goes down hard.

“Eames, get up!”

It _is_ someone yelling, but it’s not the screech of a punter who’s watching his bet go bad. Instead it sounds almost panicked. Eames tries to shake the blood out of his eyes, his forehead having split under the glancing blow. He’s pretty sure it’s Arthur screaming at him and he feels a an urge to reassure him, _I’m fine, it’s all good_. It’s a strange urge that he’ll examine later when Rodriquez isn’t so bent on killing him.

Rodriquez is like that, nothing personal to it. He just knows his limitations, gets exhausted quickly like Eames was worried about himself doing, needing the fights over fast because he’s big and impressive but not fit. Eames rolls aside, missing the kick to the temple that was meant for him and manages to get his feet under him before Rodriquez comes at him again.

Eames gets inside Rodriquez’s reach this time, what he had meant to do when Rodriquez caught him with the punch. He gets Rodriquez with a jab, cross then round kick combo, the kick connecting with Rodriquez’s outer thigh and making him stagger sideways. He finishes with a straight cross while Rodriquez is off-balance, increasing his mass when he connects, putting more weight and power behind it.

Eames goes for a collar tie next, knowing he has to end this before he passes out himself. He yanks Rodriquez forward and down into his knee, feeling blood spray up his leg. He drops Rodriquez, the bigger man sliding bonelessly to the ground.

Eames looks up, searching the gathered crowd, mostly blood thirsty projections of the high-rollers in attendance and the high-rollers themselves, standing apart and aloof. Eames’ gaze eventually catches on Arthur, cordoned off with the other fighters. He’s standing with his hands clenched into fists, looking tense and Eames throws him a grin, feeling ridiculously and inexplicably fond.

*

Eames doesn’t see Arthur fight. He’s kicked out of the dream because he can’t shake the head wound and waits back in his rack, feeling irrationally worried. Something’s really _wrong_ with all of this, Eames’ instincts waking up and sounding a whole lot of alarms he doesn’t quite understand but knows to pay attention to.

Arthur comes back with the other remaining fighters. Eames bides his time, waits until everyone has settled down with an assortment of groans and grumbles before he’s up and over to Arthur’s rack, sliding a leg across Arthur’s body, pinning him to his mattress.

Instead of the fight Eames expects, Arthur just squints up at him in the darkness, says, “Was there something you wanted?”

“Maybe,” Eames says, shifts back and forward in a slow, languid roll and still Arthur doesn’t fight him, just looks exasperated. “I said, is there something you wanted?” he repeats.

“I’m a bad guy, you know,” Eames grumbles, disconcerted that Arthur shows no fear of him. Eames gets the uncomfortable feeling that Arthur doesn’t actually _feel_ any either.

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Arthur says but he sounds more amused and curious than anything else. Eames huffs and goes to slide back off Arthur but he grips Eames’ thighs. “Please don’t be offended. It’s just not a good idea. I wouldn’t want to... take advantage,” he says cryptically.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eames asks, disturbed. There’s a cold sweat suddenly slicking his back and he wishes he’d just left Arthur the hell alone. There’s something about Arthur that’s getting to him, making the world feel unstable underneath his feet. “Why were you so worried about me going down in the fight anyway?” he presses. “It’s not like it matters if we die in the first level of a dream.”

“Can I just promise to explain everything later?” Arthur asks, even more mysterious.

“You’re bonkers,” Eames huffs and raises an eyebrow at where Arthur is still clutching him. Arthur lets go, but before Eames can retreat he stills him again with a hand circling his wrist.

“Just do me one favor,” Arthur says and Eames nods even though he doesn’t owe Arthur a damn thing, is starting to be almost frightened of Arthur’s power over him. “Just...try to remember how you got here.”

*

Eames only starts thinking about Arthur’s request when he gets back to his own rack. He stares at the ceiling for the rest of the night, hearing the sleep noises around him and the cold sweat returns. He can recall his childhood, his rebellious teenage years and what had landed him in this predicament, but not exactly the circumstances that led to being sequestered in this converted warehouse, amongst others who were working off debts with their fists in the dreamscape.  
It was the most basic of tests and it hadn’t even _occurred_ to Eames to think about it.

At the long table, over breakfast the next morning, Eames shuffles Arthur aside and then leans into his space to hiss, “That’s why you were worried about me biting it? Because we’re in the first level of a dream _now_ , right?”

“I couldn’t tell what it would do to you, they’re using very experimental drugs just to keep you down here and there’s a chance of brain damage.” Arthur gives him a sidelong glance that Eames doesn’t know how to interpret, because the closest emotion it would come to would be worry. “I needed you to come to this on your own.”

“What are you waiting for then? Kick me out,” he snaps, unsettled. He’s wondering just how long he’s been asleep, who’s been holding him and _why_.

“I can’t risk it that way,” Arthur says maddeningly. “You’re under quite heavy sedation not to mention whatever they used to brainwash you-“  
“Hang on, what?” Eames interrupts. “Brainwash?”

“You don’t recognise me, right?” Arthur asks, sounding overly patient.

“Should I?”

“Should-“ Arthur starts and for the first time Arthur’s composure slips. Eames isn’t really sure what it means but he watches Arthur pull himself together, resettle. “We’ve... worked together for years,” Arthur finally says but Eames gets the very distinct impression that Arthur’s now lying. Then Arthur’s poker face slips again and something like anger slides across his features. “I _knew_ they were tailing you but I wasn’t sure why and then you...”

Eames reaches a hand out, places it on top of Arthur’s. He’s not sure why he does it, just knows it feels right, feels like something he should do. Arthur calms under his touch immediately, lets Eames squeeze his fingers and let go before he continues. “It took me longer than it should have to find you.”

Arthur’s self-deprecating tone echoes around Eames’ mind and he knows it’s trying to kick start something, make him _remember_ who this maddening creature is to him. He’s heard Arthur beat himself up like this before, he’s sure of it. He feels his pulse kick into overdrive, sweat breaking out on his brow. He starts feeling queasy and Arthur must notice something amiss because his face goes tight.

“Your body’s trying to wake itself up but it can’t,” he says. “Yusuf showed me how to fabricate something down here that will help. It won’t be pleasant, I’m afraid.”

“Just...just do it,” Eames demands.

Arthur reaches into an inside pocket and pulls out a needle. It looks _big_ and Eames eyes it. “Where the hell did you get that?” he demands.

“I have my talents, just like you do,” he says.

“What happens to you though, after that?” Eames asks, suddenly worried for Arthur even though it’s an irrational feeling.

“I’ll kick myself out, don’t worry,” Arthur says. “Yusuf dosed me with a blocker before I was taken so it’s not nearly as risky for me.”

“Well, where does that g-?” Eames starts to ask and that’s when Arthur stabs him in the heart.

*

Eames wakes up to someone yelling. It takes him a moment through the fog to recognize that it’s Arthur and then he feels a thrill that he _recognizes Arthur_. He knows the memory was there while he was under but he just couldn’t reach it, like a drowning man with a glass of water frustratingly close.

“-be awake by now!” Arthur is yelling and Eames cracks open an eye to see that Yusuf is the one who’s the target of Arthur’s ire. Eames just takes a blissful moment for the knowledge of _Arthur_ to sink into him, watch how Yusuf patiently takes his yelling, knowing that it’s not personal, that it’s Arthur being worried. Yusuf spots Eames awake over Arthur’s shoulder and raises his eyebrows. Eames gives him a smirk in return.

Yusuf gently takes Arthur by the shoulders, which is quite risky when Arthur’s worked up like this, turns Arthur around while he’s still ranting and Arthur stutters to a halt. “Ah,” he says, fetching spots of pink on his cheekbones.

“Hi love,” Eames says, frowns when his voice comes out as a rusty croak. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”


End file.
